


When I Was Young and Dreamed of Glory

by thelimitsofthe_sea



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelimitsofthe_sea/pseuds/thelimitsofthe_sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Animorphs drabbles inspired by Hamilton lyrics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it's quiet uptown

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics here are from It's Quiet Uptown - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2c97oQbvb1Q  
> I liberally quoted and rewrote scenes from #54.

_there are moments that the words don’t reach, there is suffering too terrible to name_

Anyone would’ve thought Jake the ideal candidate for fame and fortune in the years after the war. He’d always been a golden boy, the proof was in the pictures that used to line the walls of his house- him at two, big blue eyes and gap toothed smile wide as the sky, him pushing Rachel on a tire swing at some long ago family event, before the divorce, he and Marco grinning and breathless after a full afternoon of basketball. A small one of him sitting on the pier cross-legged, looking over the water. His expression thoughtful, hand on his chin, his gaze unaware of the camera and turned towards the setting sun. Thirteen years old, the summer before it all began.  What had he been thinking about so deeply, what could’ve seemed so interesting and complex in a life that was simple back then, in a way that it would never be again? Jake didn’t know. It was a different age, a different person. Whatever thoughts had going through his head were now forever inaccessible to him. Back then, he hadn’t sought attention, he’d naturally attracted it. Why should things be any different now? A hero with an all-American wholesomeness and humility, but with the rugged edge of a soldier. People ate it up. Or they would have, if he had let them. But Jake’s gold had turned cold and dull, his reserves of charisma and charm dried up. He was exhausted and drained, too tired to try and appear as anything other than sad, old, and defeated. This was a victory story, and he was supposed to be the hero, but he no longer knew how to play the part. _With all due respect to this court, this witness is a mass murderer. A war criminal._ The words of the Visser’s lawyer, in the packed courtroom, scores of journalists filming and scribbling away, billions watching. Jake felt his stomach drop, his heart in his throat, body numb and then boiling in the space of a second. A surge of adrenaline, just like in the heat of a battle. It used to lead to fight or flight, but all he could do was freeze. _Apparently the witness is having some difficulty._ Yeah, understatement of the century. He’d stumbled through the rest of his testimony, barely managing to compose himself. The refrain of his nightmares, the shameful, ugly truth that lived in his bones, out there for the entire world to hear. Even though the objection was denied, the truth of it, once spoken, was irrevocable. Ghosts were in the room, asking for justification that he couldn’t give, since there was none. Every eye in the room gazed its condemnation at him. He’d hoped for some feeling of closure after the guilty verdict, but the feeling of universal accusation only amplified. In the faces of strangers, friends, even his parents, he saw disgust and accusation, hidden behind politeness and kind words. But none of it could match the strength of renouncement he saw in the mirror every morning, raw and open and bleeding.

 

 

_you hold your child as tight as you can, and push away the unimaginable_

Naomi had tears streaming down her cheeks throughout the entire service, mostly managing to contain herself with muffled sobs and shaking throughout the speeches and hymns. But when Tobias swooped down, magnificent and resolute, she lost  any remnant of restraint, she split open, sobs racking her body, breath loud and ragged. He did come for her, his Rachel, after all. It both broke her heart and filled her with a joy so big she could hardly breathe. Amongst all these strangers, here was the boy who had loved Rachel as she was, the only person who’d come close to loving her as much as her mother did. The comfort and the pain in this knowledge made the question he asked, such a difficult one, easily and instantly granted. She immediately nodded her permission when his sharp gaze reached her. She could keep that urn tucked away on a shelf, covet her daughter away, or she could let Rachel fly. The last gift a mother could give, the bittersweet sting of it assuring her that it was right.

Through her bleary fog at the reception, she looked up and saw Jake, posture perfectly tense and starched, face blank, shaking strangers hands on automatic, lips accepting condolences by rote. Naomi felt Rachel’s ashes suddenly in the back of her throat, choking and charred. A blazing hot fury built in her. She remembered Jake and Rachel playing together as children, she ploughing ahead into every adventure heedlessly, he hanging back and weighing the risk and reward. Rachel would come back home with the skinned knees, bruises, even a broken arm once. Jake would be unharmed, never the first to swing across the stream or climb the tallest tree or jump off the boulder.  And now he was here, and she was gone. She hated him in that moment deeper than she’d ever hated before, hated his apologetic reticence, his carefulness, his practicality. He was so cold, where Rachel had been vibrant, passionate, burning.  And he’d been able to see that, and he’d used it, and now he was very sorry about it but it wasn’t good enough because _he was here and she was gone_. Jake’s mother walked up behind her son and laid a soft hand on his shoulder, and Naomi’s stomach twisted itself bloody. Something that would be forever denied to her, because of him. She took a deep breath, tried to blink the heat out of her head. Her feelings were ugly in their intensity, but she couldn’t deny them. Even if she ever managed to stop hating her nephew, she would resent him every day for the rest of her life, resent that he was there, and not Rachel. He must have sensed her feelings somehow- he’d made no effort to speak to her, stayed at the opposite side of the room, couldn’t even make eye contact. Back when she’d bandage all Rachel’s cuts and scrapes, Jake would perch nearby, forehead furrowed in upset, telling her she should’ve listened to him. Rachel would toss her blonde hair back and laugh, eyes haughty and proud, beautiful, so beautiful, and tell him she didn’t regret a minute of it.  Naomi knew whose mother she’d rather be.

 

_the moments when you’re in so deep, it feels easier to just swim down_

When the cold of the frigid Atlantic bit into his skin, Jake panicked, gulping in mouthfuls of salt water. At the mercy of the waves, he was tossed around like driftwood, taking breaths of sharp air before being plunged back into the deep. His face stung, the fall had been short but hitting the water’s surface had been like a slap, his body was burning with cold in the centre and going numb at the tips. In distended shock, he struggled, thoughts getting fuzzier, the need to give in rather than fight back getting ever more tempting. Suddenly he realized that he was, in fact, Jake the Animorph, and certainly morph capable. The solution was so obvious he would’ve laughed at his own stupidity, if his mouth hadn’t already been jutting out to form the dolphin’s jaw. Once he was fully morphed, he dove deep and then sped back up again, shooting above the waves in a burst of spray. The animal’s natural instincts of energy and playfulness took over, and Jake made no effort to control them. Euphoria jolted through his veins, almost desperate in its intensity. He could sense other dolphins a ways off, hanging back, and he felt a flush of annoyance as he began to understand the situation. He leapt and dove, over and over again, till he was so exhausted he could barely swim his way back to the beach. 

                “I guess you guys think you’re clever,” he spat out once he’d demorphed.

               “More like desperate,” Marco shot back, hands on his hips, dark eyes fiery. This was an intervention that Jake both desperately needed but had to push away with every fibre of his being- accepting any comfort from them would be granting himself grace he didn’t deserve. They all try to get through to him, Ax with his usual cool logic- _It was I who pointed out the possibility to you, I who pointed out that the Yeerk pool could be drained_ \- Cassie with sincere moral arguments that sound fragile coming out of  her mouth, as if she herself doubts the conclusions she’d made. But it’s Marco who cuts to the jugular; his best friend, never one to blunt the truth. He’s right up in Jake’s face, not letting him hide or deny it. _You wanted them to suffer and the idea of them suffering and dying made you happy. You were thrilled. You were high._ He sees Cassie flinch and try to hide it.

                “You don’t get to be a war criminal by thinking bad thoughts,” Marco insists, almost impatient, and so certain of himself. It was a bandage where the truth he’d opened was a wound, yet somehow Marco thought it would fix it. Cassie didn’t say anything, there was struggle on her face, as if she knew she should agree with Marco, but couldn’t bring herself to. She’d never been a liar, could never endorse an easy answer if she didn’t think it was morally sound. He’d loved her for it.  Still did now, in some forgotten part of him, even when it was being used against him. There’s an awkward lag of silence, they’ve run out of prepared arguments, Jake is suddenly exhausted. The past is so thick on the beach that none of them can break through it.

Later on in his hotel room, the clock ticking out the hours of the early morning, Jake keeps replaying it in his mind. He often swims down to the bottom of his parents’ pool in the backyard of their new mansion, pretending he’d never run out of air, wishing he could suppress the urge to swim back up. But today he’d sought the air, there’d been no question of denying himself it, the world above the water had seemed welcome, the black depths foreboding rather than tempting. Maybe that’s what they’d been trying to tell him. Pools, bottles, oceans- you have to resurface eventually. Even when you feel like drowning in them, you have to resurface.

 

_if you see him in the street, walking by himself, taking to himself, have pity- he is working through the unimaginable_

Marco had been naïve, he had to admit it. He’d really believed that stunt with the “morph-therapy” would snap Jake out of his funk. Once the trial of the Visser was over and done with, he’d thought that Jake would finally be able to let the weight of the world off his shoulders and move on with his life. And yeah, maybe things were a bit better. Jake actually answered the phone now, occasionally he’d hang out with Marco, even go to parties. But he refused to date anyone, he often lapsed into long silences, he held himself with a resolute stiffness, and his smiles never reached his eyes. He was forcing himself to participate in the conventions of a normal young guy’s life, but he was treating it like it was another duty. Marco didn’t want a slightly less neurotic, isolated version of Jake. He wanted his best friend back.

These were the thoughts on his mind as his chauffeur drove through the rush hour traffic, nothing unusual, but with an added streak of frustration and impatience due to the events of last night. Marco’s 19th birthday party had been fucking awesome.  Everyone who was anyone was there, he’d hired the best DJ, the meal was prepared by a Michelin star chef, and the open bar was well-stocked and ready for business.  He’d kept an eye out for Jake, and when he arrived he’d immediately broke away from the actress he’d been chatting up to welcome him, slinging an arm around his shoulders and bringing him to the centre of the room to introduce him to his most big-league guests. Jake had awkwardly avoided eye contact, coldly ignored the poor girl who tried to flirt with him, and left less than an hour later without saying goodbye. Marco was pissed off, to say the least. He didn’t bother calling the next day, not wanting to hear Jake’s inevitable lame excuses. There was a point where being all traumatized stopped being an excuse for being rude and completely self-absorbed. He laid his forehead against the cool glass, trying to shake off his annoyance. He had another friend from the old days to meet today. Ax was on one of his frequent visits to Earth. Dubbed “Aximili of Earth”, he was always welcome on the planet he’d helped save, and acted as a liaison between them and the Andalite homeworld. Marco tried to squeeze in time to see Ax-man whenever he was in town. Both Jake and Ax were blasts from the past, but where Jake seemed frozen in it, when Marco saw Ax they rarely spoke of it. Their natures were far too practical for endless refection and moralizing, and besides, there were movies and book-deals and missions to be discussed. Their lives were busy, constantly changing where Jake’s had stayed stagnant. Back during the war, Marco had often bumped heads with Ax, both of them stubborn and opinionated. The strain and vague animosity between them was gone now that it was peacetime. They were older, and the days of tough decisions were over. When Marco walked into Taco Bell, Ax was already halfway through a taco. Marco couldn’t help grinning; some things would never change.

                “Thanks for waiting,” he greeted him sarcastically as he slid into the booth. 

                “You were late, and the tacos were calling,” Ax said unapologetically. “And do not fear, I still have room for more.”

                “Oh, thank God. I was getting worried.” Between tacos, they talked about the usual, Ax mainly about his career, Marco whining about his ex-girlfriend and annoying paps. Halfway through a long story about a break-in by a crazed fan, Ax looked up from his food and fixed him with a sharp glance.

                “What is wrong, Marco? You are distracted today.” he interrupted. Marco paused, mouth open. Truth was, he couldn’t stop thinking about the party last night, and his banter was half-hearted at best.

                “Can’t hide anything from our resident alien, can I?” Marco sighed, but was actually grateful for the chance to rant. Once he was finished, Ax stayed silent for a moment, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

                “I can see you are very distraught, but I cannot understand why. Prince Jake does not enjoy large gatherings, he is private and solitary. Tary. You know this as well as I. Why are you upset?”

                “It was my birthday, Ax, a big-deal party! I made a freaking effort for him, and he couldn’t shake himself out of his stupid slump to even halfway do the same. It’s fucking selfish.”

                “Prince Jake is the one who is selfish? You asked him to attend an event where you knew he would feel uncomfortable. Bull. He was doing a favour to you, despite his reservations. Shuns. That would make you the selfish one.” 

“That’s not true!” Marco slammed his drink down on the plastic table, harder than he’d meant. Ax’s gaze remained level. “Look,” Marco continued, lowering his voice. “He’s not your best friend.” He absently dabbed at the spilled coke with a napkin. “Hell, I don’t even know if he’s mine anymore.”

“Your anger is disproportionate; therefore it must be about something else.” Ax said matter-of-factly. God, the guy was not letting him off the hook.

“He was so _pathetic_ ,” Marco said, feeling like a traitor. “Goddamnit, I was ashamed of him.” That was why he was so furious- he never thought he’d be ashamed of Jake, never thought someone so proud and strong could end up as a pitiable charity case. Ax took a long sip from his straw, the florescent lighting casting odd shadows on his pale face.

“It is a conflict my brother had,” he said finally. “As a leader, to show any weakness was to let people down.”

“I know he’s human, Ax. I don’t have him on a fucking pedestal. We went through far too much for that. I’m sick of waiting for someone who’s not coming back.”

“You must be patient. Ay- shent.”  

                 “It’s been years! I’ve moved on with my life. You have.” His words were drenched in all the bitterness and resentment he’d been storing.

                “You are a very practical person, Marco. Unsentimental, strategic. We both are, it’s why we’re survivors. Ors. It’s also why we’re horrible.”

                “Speak for yourself,” Marco shot back, but without any bite.

                “Jake is different,” Ax concluded simply.

                “No one else could’ve won the war, anybody else was better suited to survive it,” Marco said ruefully, completing the thought. “Well, except bird boy.”

                “They loved her.”

Marco wanted to say that they all had, but it wasn’t true, not really. They were both silent for another minute, but it was comfortable, like when he used to hang out at Ax’s scoop.

                “Time for dessert,” Ax announced suddenly, staring covetously at the table across from them were a kid was chowing down a Cinnabon.

                “You pig,” Marco laughed, but he was already getting up to walk towards the counter.

 

 

_if I could trade his life for mine he’d be standing here right now, and you would smile, and that would be enough_

Jake folded the last shirt into the suitcase, smoothed it out, tucked the sleeves inwards. The room was naked now- all the furniture had been moved out yesterday, all that had been left to do was to clear out the closet of its sparse contents. Wires ran along the wall close to the floor, prominent against the creamy paint like veins on the underside of a wrist. Looking around, he felt nothing but neutrality. He’d lived here with his parents for the last two years, but it was a house entirely without memories. They’d spent endless days in between these walls, all blurring into a monotony of shared silences and separate griefs. No pictures were on the walls, no barbecues had ever happened in the backyard, the pool never used for anything other than solitary laps. They all knew there was no use in playing house- they’d already done that during the war; smiling and passing the salt and pretending, Jake never letting on that he knew, everyone playing their part to perfection. Nowadays there was no more guises left for them, they’d used up their reserves of comfortable artifice. More often than not no one bothered to make dinner, the phone was left ringing, holidays and birthdays passed without notice. The Berenson family had mastered the art of suspended animation, the world passing on outside while they all held their breath, waiting, waiting so patiently. Waiting for a boy who would never come home. Tom had never lived here, but it was if it had been built for him. The expansive driveway called out to him to shoot some hoops, the stark foyer waited to be strewn with his hoodies and dirty sneakers, the surround sound in the living room wanted to blare out his thumping rap mix tapes, the ones that dad had always yelled at him to turn down. The ghost of Tom was so big it threatened to suck the air out sometimes, leaving them oxygen starved, incapable of rebuilding. This realization had dawned on Jake slowly, uncomfortable and unwelcome, but demanding to be acknowledged. No matter how long he lived in his parent’s house, no matter how long he tried to stay their child, he would never get his family back. That had been gone for a long time. After the war, after so long of having to act years older than he was, he’d felt like a little boy, unable to walk on his own legs, needing his parents in shouting distance. It was unchallenging, it was safe. It was a lie.

It was impossible to recreate the childhood that had been cut short, and in trying to do so he’d created a distorted image that was only keeping them trapped behind the glass. The truth was he was almost twenty years old, and this was pathetic. It was time to let go.  Marco had been thrilled when he’d heard that Jake was finally moving out, but his own feelings were more conflicted. He was relieved, restless for a new stage in his life, maybe even slightly hopeful. But there was a shockingly strong grief in releasing the idea of him as a kid, of them as a family. He felt a presence behind him, and turned to see his mother standing just outside the doorway. Her face was paler than usual, her eyes raw.

                “All packed up?” she asked.

                “Pretty much,” he replied, trying to produce a smile for her.  There was a beat of silence, as she bit her lip and he smoothed out his already folded shirt.

                “You know you don’t have to leave,” she said finally, and he hated the hesitance in her voice.

                “I do, mom,” he said as gently as he could, but she turned her face away as though he’d slapped her. He stepped forward and took her into his arms, felt her flinch under his touch. She seemed so much smaller and shrunken, a bone cage where there used to be a woman.

                Later on, suitcase by his side, parents watching from the stairwell, he paused with his hand on the doorknob, the metal cool and smooth in his palm. He knew that by leaving he was forcing his parents to realize, irrevocably, that Tom was gone. He could stay home forever, but he could never substitute for what they’d lost. Maybe, just maybe, if they saw him press the play button on his life, they would finally able to do the same. _I’m so sorry,_ he thought, and then he opened the door

 

_we push away what we can never understand, we push away the unimaginable_

It wasn’t that Cassie hadn’t struggled with survivor’s guilt - God knows she had.  What was unexpected, most of all to herself, was how quickly she’d been able to let go and move on. It had been no surprise that Marco and Ax had thrived after the war, they were innate survivors, practical and realistic, opportunistic, even, if she was to be honest. Cassie was the polar opposite- the moralizer, the one who insisted on black and white ideals and couldn’t even fathom entering the grey. She was the Animorph who should be agonizing every day, torturing herself with all they had done wrong. And yet here she was, perhaps with the most normal life of all of them. She still thought about the war, it’s not as if any of them could ever forget, but her life was so busy and exciting that her head was too full of the present to leave much room for the past. There was her career, helping the Hork-Bajir in their habitat on Earth, time spent reconnecting with her family, newly-forged friendships that didn’t lie on the foundations of betrayal and trauma. And of course, Ronnie. Sometimes memories crept in just before she drifted off, or during the few quiet pauses in her day. But she was full of purpose and passion, and they never stayed for long. In fact, her main source of guilt was how little of it she felt.

                Every time she saw one of the other Animorphs, she was reminded of this. Perhaps that why she kept her distance, not out of any ill will, just the strange discomfort of knowing they’d gone through the same thing together and walked away so entirely different. She immediately knew it was Jake when she caught sight of him circling overhead. _I still know you, even after all these years._ She felt a complicated twist in her chest as she watched him demorph, the weight of the knowledge that she had walked away unscathed and he was still bleeding. Many times she’d wanted to reach out, comfort him somehow; and yet she was also repulsed. She’d held him in her arms and now she was frightened to touch him, frightened of the stains that would seep into her hands. He stood before her now, older and fuller, eyes weary- boy soldier to withered veteran. Cassie was struck once again by how much pain he still held in his body. She realized suddenly that she was so free now because she’d allowed herself to feel everything during the war, to cry and scream and go over it endlessly, to doubt every turn. Jake had never allowed himself that release; he’d bottled everything up so that he could do what needed to be done. It wasn’t that she felt the war less deeply, it was that she’d felt it in the moment, whereas now everything he’d forced away was back to haunt him, and collecting interest. This insight both relieved her conscience and made her incredibly sad for Jake. She had a sudden recollection of them arguing, or at least her trying to argue with Jake while he stonewalled her. She’d been in frustrated tears, demanding to know why he couldn’t care like her, how he could make these decisions and wake up the next day and go on. He’d replied at last that morality was a luxury he didn’t have time for. _Well Jake,_ she thought ruefully, _now you have all the time in the world._

That response illuminated the uncrossable difference between her and Jake, between her and Rachel. To them, principle and virtue _were_ a luxury, an indulgence, even. She could never look at it like that. They began to see her as weak, and she began to be unable to reconcile herself with their actions. Jake used to have so much light in him, but the war had eaten it away, and she couldn’t hold what was left over. Cassie needed someone she fully admired and trusted, and Jake had somehow turned into a monster. In hindsight, distanced by the buffer of time, she could grant him compassion and sympathy. But she couldn’t love him, and they could never be together again.

                Cassie was so jolted by the news of Ax’s capture that she grabbed Jake’s arm. Her heart leapt into her throat, but her hand didn’t burn. It was just skin. He looked at her, same eyes, same bodies, but she felt nothing. She didn’t know what she’d been holding her breath for- this was a different time, a different context that divorced the action from what it used to mean. She hesitates before she volunteers to go, knowing it’s the right thing to do, the moral thing to do, the _Cassie_ thing to do, but her heart was heavy with reluctance.

                “No, Cassie,” Jake says instantly, firm and resolute, just like the old days. She’s caught off guard, assumes immediately it must be their past that’s holding him back. _You’re the soldier who has fought her war and moved on. This is what I am, not what you are._ Tears well in Cassie’s eyes. She had somehow though that they could be a team again, and if they could, that she could still be part of it, even while knowing it was wrong for her.  Cassie had always thought she was the one with clarity, yet here was Jake, telling the truth, simply and forthrightly, and most importantly, kindly.

                When Jake leaves, Cassie knows that was the last time they will ever meet. She feels a bittersweet acceptance, a sense of completion. She will never understand him, but maybe, all this time, he’d understood her.

 

_there are moments that the words don’t reach, there’s a grace too powerful to name- forgiveness, can you imagine?_

Tobias could’ve flown away, would have, his wings were already spread and the sky was calling, if Jake hadn’t desperately blurted out Ax’s name at the last possible second. _Ah, Jake,_ Tobias thought viciously, _even after all these years you know how to get what you want from people._ Near the beginning, after the funeral, he’d had to stay away from Jake because he would’ve killed him otherwise. Then he stayed away because too much time had passed. And once too many years go by, some things that might’ve been just can’t be anymore. Either there are no words to say, or the time to say them came and went. He finds the edges of his rage corroded- it’s not blood boiling hot, but weary, resigned. Past the point of rashness, to the colder realm of disdain. Jake stares resolutely at the branch Tobias is perched on while he explains the situation, set of his jaw square. His former leader, golden boy, rescuer from bullies and toilets, now too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Good. Unfair? Anger goes beyond fairness, to somewhere more primal than logic. So does love. Tobias is a creature of instinct, and he knows all about that.

Jake is gaining confidence as a leader, he feels more assured of himself, less like an imposter. This is familiar territory, whether he likes it or not, and somehow it’s all coming back to him, like muscle memory. God, turns out arranging a suicide rescue mission is still easier for him than going to the grocery store. It’s fucked up, but then, what isn’t? He feels like himself again, capable again, and he never thought it would be this sweet. Still, he’s nervous when he gives Tobias his first order, half waiting for him to defy him, to throw his contempt in Jake’s face. But barely a beat passes before Tobias begins to demorph, and Jake lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The ghost of Rachel is thick between them, but nonetheless Tobias is giving him this trust. It feel like a gift, a fragile one, and Jake barely remembers how to hold something breakable.

When it’s time to name the ship, Tobias, previously silent, speaks at once,

                <<She’s beautiful. She’s beautiful and dangerous and exciting.>> Jake’s breath catches, and he turns to stare at Tobias, looking at him straight on for maybe the first time since the war. Since Rachel. Tobias meets his gaze, unflinching, the golden eyes of a predator. And Jake knows that all the absolution he’s going to get is in that proud gaze, and it’s more than he could’ve ever asked for. Sometimes we’re given things we don’t deserve, and the real strength lies in taking it anyway.


	2. the world was wide enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics here are from The World Was Wide Enough: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YuLKa3-y-2Q

_history obliterates, and every picture it paints, it paints me in all my mistakes_

Alloran wasn’t allowed to testify at the trial- “too close to self-incrimination”, the tribunal decided. “Too close” had the whisper of “too complicit” behind it, but he supposed he appreciated their effort of phrasing it so nicely- rounding the edges off words, something he’d never been any good at.  Besides, it would be a behemoth of a task, separating and neatly categorizing Visser from War Prince, Andalite from Yeerk, to the degree of precision that the law required.  This trial was going to drag on for long enough as it was. And the Andalite government had no reason to desire Alloran to take the stand – The Butcher of the Hork-Bajir had disgraced his people enough, the best he could for them now was to shut up and stay to the side. The fact that there were more parallels than disparities between the defendant and his former host was discomfiting to everybody, and hardly something they needed paraded in front of the galaxy. If even the highest courts of law were unable to disentangle Alloran from Esplin 9466, how the hell was he ever supposed to?  He allowed himself a smirk at the thought, and Aximili, standing to his left, shot him a questioning glance. Alloran shrugged, and Aximili turned his attention back to the stand, where the Visser’s court-appointed lawyers were barely attempting a cross-examination. He and Aximili shared an unspoken but sincere solidarity ever since he’d supported him in his challenge against Asculan the year before, providing the Princely rank the rules required and paving the way for Aximili’s own promotion. He seemed to have won the younger Andalite’s respect with that action, and Aximili had gained his in return, a rare accomplishment. Although they would never keep in touch, or sustain anything even broaching a friendship, Alloran had learned that Aximili had requested him as legal observer, before being told this would be inappropriate, and assigned some uncontroversial mid-ranking official instead. Even so, Aximili had sought him out at the trial and stood by him, as if saying _you deserve to be here too_. The fact that the newly crowned hero of the homeworld would associate with the infamous fallen commander was subject to whispers, and disapproval from certain quarters. But he remained silently resolute in his decision not to shun Alloran. It was not a sign of absolution, nor an expression of approval- merely an acknowledgement that none of them were sinless. It was all very fitting, he mused. Elfangor’s defiance all those years ago had led to his infestation, yet here he was, alive while he was long dead, murdered by the Visser. And now he stood next to his younger brother, not even born yet when Alloran had first met Elfangor, helping to avenge them. Here at the end of it all. A clear beginning and completion- it had a satisfying circularity that life rarely offered. Alloran was one of the least supersitious Andalites around, he was viciously practical, but even he had to admit there was something fateful in it. He wouldn’t be surprised if the meddling of an Ellimist was involved. Any anger he’d felt at Elfangor for his betrayal had been extinguished the night he’d killed him, trapped in his own body and screaming against it, a memory among all the crimes he’d committed that remained stark and painful, refusing to blend in with all the other blood. The two of them were irreversibly bound through the strange intimacy of death. Elfangor would play on his mind every day, for as many days as he had left to him. But despite this, he had to admit he vastly preferred Aximili, with his deft mind, who understood the power in deference, the grace in restraint. The furthest thing from his older brother. The furthest thing from Alloran. Which is probably why he liked the kid.  Whereas Elfangor, Alloran, and even the Visser, had been kin of each other, all sharing the sin and strength of limitless ambition. Now one was a martyred hero, the other a disgraced villain, leaving Alloran in the middle, in the undefinable grey between light and dark. Too tarnished for celebration, not guilty enough for the dock- all that was let to him was to stand to the side and stay silent. He had felt enormous relief when  he’d  learned he wouldn’t have to testify. A former him would have been furious at the indignity of being sidelined, would’ve demanded his rightful place in the limelight. Alloran used to think he had so much fight in him it would take ten galaxies to burn it out, but somewhere along the way, his had finally been smothered. He wanted this to be over, and he wanted to go home. He couldn’t even muster much concern as to what the verdict would be. Whatever the law decided, whatever rulings were made, they were all already written into their places, judgement had long ago been passed. Alloran was the Butcher of the Hork-Bajir, the only Andalite Host. A million words could never undo that. Alloran could accept it, partly because of the grim satisfaction he felt recollecting standing up to Asculan and backing the rookie. His last act that would be recorded by the books,  characteristically brazen and defiant, was something he could be proud of without complication or regret. Perhaps that was enough.


End file.
